CALIFORNIA 


AND  THE  OPENING  OF  THE 
GATEWAY  BETWEEN  THE 
ATLANTIC  WTHE  PACIFIC 


GIFT  OF 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


CALIFORNIA 


^CALIFORNIA 

AND 

THE  OPENING  OF  THE  GATEWAY 

BETWEEN  THE  ATLANTIC 

AND  THE  PACIFIC 


PUBLISHERS 

PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1916 

By  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


'3V 


fm 


TO  THE  CAUSE  OF  PEACE 


36-0645 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PART  I  .....    .    ................       3 


PART  II 


FOREWORD 

The  New  World  is  naturally  divided  into  two  great 
Peninsula  s;  whereof  that  towards  the  North  is 
called  Mexicana,  from  Mexico  the  chief  City  and 
Province  of  it,  supposed  (for  the  most  Northern 
parts  of  it  are  not  yet  discovered)  to  contain  13000 
miles  in  compass.  That  towards  the  South  hath 
the  name  of  Peruana,  from  the  great  Countrey  of 
Peru;  the  Circumnavigation  whereof  is  reckoned  to 
17000  Italian  miles.  The  Isthmus  which  joyneth 
these  two  together  is  very  long,  but  narrow;  in  some 
places  not  above  12  miles  from  Sea  to  Sea,  in  many 
not  above  seventeen.  By  the  Spaniards  it  is  called 
the  Streight  of  Darien,  from  a  River  of  that  name 
in  Peruana,  near  unto  the  Isthmus;  and  is  so  small  a 
Ligament  for  so  great  a  Body,  that  some  have 
thought  of  turning  these  two  Peninsula's  into  perfect 
Islands.  Certain  it  is,  that  many  have  motioned  to 
the  Council  of  Spain,  the  cutting  of  a  navigable 
Chanel  through  this  small  Isthmus;  so  to  shorten 
their  common  Voyages  to  China  and  the  Molucca's. 
But  the  Kings  of  Spain  have  not  hitherto  attempted 
it;  partly,  because  if  he  should  employ  the  Americans 
in  the  work,  he  should  lose  those  few  of  them  which 
his  people  have  suffered  to  Jive;  partly,  because  the 
Slaves  which  they  yearly  buy  out  of  Africa  do  but 
suffice  for  the  Mines  and  Sugar-houses;  but  princi- 
pally, lest  the  passage  by  the  Cape  of  good  Hope 
being  left,  those  Seas  might  become  a  receptacle  of 
Pirates.  Which  doubtless  was  a  very  prudent  and 


[VI 


politick  consideration.  Many  times  I  have  read  of 
the  like  attempts  begun,  but  never  of  any  finished. 
Sesostris  King  of  dSgypt,  Darius  of  Persia,  one  of  the 
Ptolomies,  and  a  late  capricious  Portugal  had  the  like 
Plot,  to  make  a  passage  from  the  Red  Sea  to  the 
Mediterranean.  So  had  Ctesar,  Caligula,  and  Nero, 
Emperours  of  Rome,  upon  the  Corinthian  Isthmus. 
Another  of  the  same  nature  had  Charles  the  Great, 
to  let  the  Rhene  into  the  Danow:  the  like  had  Lucius 
Verus,  to  joyn  the  Rhene  and  the  Rhosne:  all  which, 
in  their  peculiar  places,  we  have  already  touched. 
Nicanor  also,  King  of  Syria,  intended  to  have  made 
a  Chanel  from  the  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  Sea,  an 
infinite  Project.  But  neither  he  nor  any  of  the  rest 
could  finish  these  works:  God,  it  seemeth,  being  not 
pleased  at  such  proud  and  haughty  Enterprises. 
And  yet  perhaps  the  want  of  Treasure  hath  not  been 
the  least  cause  why  the  like  Projects  have  not  pro- 
ceeded. 

—Bv  PETER  HEYLYN,  From  the  COSMOGRAPHY 
Printed  in  LONDON,  in  the  Year  MDCLXXVII. 


CALIFORNIA 


CALIFORNIA 

PART  I. 

A  short  curved  line  on  yellow  parchment  traced 
By  monk  in  cloister.     Reverently  placed 
To  part  the  unknown  land  and  untried  sea 
In  darkness  wrapped,  shrouded  in  mystery, 
Where  he  who  sailed  by  way  unknown  before, 
Nor  came  again  from  undiscovered  shore, 
Was  down  red  vortex  of  the  sunset  drawn 
Into  the  shadow  land  of  dawn, 
Or,  from  new  lands  returned,  a  thing  divine 
Had  compassed  for  his  sovereign. 

A  line 

Marking  where  first,  above  the  unsighted  land, 
Rested,  low  lying  on  the  waves,  a  band 
Of  clouds  and  from  the  opal  water  rose, 
Like  shade  its  passing  shadow  darkening  throws 
On  the  pale  sea,  the  faint  shape  floating  dim 
Zimenes  saw  upon  the  ocean's  rim, — 
Dream  shore  emerging  misty  from  the  blue 
Of  fading  sky,  scarce  needing  passage  through 
Or  tangible  enough  to  separate 
The  fabled  waters  of  the  unfound  strait 
Which  seeking  came  Cortes, — the  low  Pearl  Coast 
New  consecrated  with  the  lifted  Host. 


An  Island  swimming  in  the  purple  seas. 
Where  passed  the  unfreighted  argosies, 


4l 


The  cross  of  Santiago  on  each  prow, 

With  swelling  sails,  to  sink  below 

The  new  horizon  line,  or  staggering  rose 

From  the  white  foam,  at  the  wild  tempest 's  close, 

The  high  built  galleon. 

Island  whose  bounds  no  chart  has  shown. 

Luring  still  on  beyond  Antillia, 

Beyond  the  Isles  of  Spice,  by  far 

Strange  waters,  where,  northwest,  in  splendor  lay 

The  shining  gold  roofed  temples  of  Cathay. 


Coast  line 

Drawn  tentative  by  skilled  cartographer 
On  that  uncharted  sea  where  mariner 
On  high  adventure  sailed,  on  and  still  on, 
Still  westward  sailed,  his  baffled  quest  upon, 
With  veering  compass  and  with  scurvied  crew, 
On  sea  of  dark  Columbus  never  knew; 
Whose  breaking  surf  rolled  vanishing  between 
The  unknown  waters  and  the  land  unseen; 
Where  the  shippes  crept  each  stretching  point  around 
And  bore  in  their  frail  bottoms,  outward  bound, 
The  dreams  of  men. 


A  lengthening  line  piercing  the  unmapped  blank 
Of  the  unknown,  where  sail  red-lighted,  sank 
In  the  engulfing  waves  and  headland  showed 
Sudden  and  strange,  out  of  white  dawn.     Where  rode 
The  drifting  barque  on  rock  which  breaker  met, — 
Terra  Incognita,  a  barrier  set. 


Where  men  came  blind,  into  each  inlet  groped, 
The  great  adventurers,  who  dauntless  hoped 
Each  winding  channel  and  each  shallow  cove 
The  unfound  way  might  prove. 
Who  saw  in  dreams,  beyond  each  rounded  cape 
And  phantom  headland 's  mist-enshrouded  shape, 
What  still  the  clinging  fog  bank  might  conceal 
Or  the  swift  breaking  storm  cloud  yet  reveal; 
Deeming  each  shining  silver  reach  might  be 
The  long  sought  passage  to  the  Northern  Sea, — 
Came  all  unguessing,  to  explore 
The  golden  Islands  on  the  Indies  shore, 
And  on  the  western  coast  of  the  New  World, 
Spain's  tattered  flag  unfurled, 
Upon  its  farthest  limits  still  to  wait 
For  tidings  of  the  undiscovered  strait. 


Vainly,  as  they,  enticed,  who  eager  sought 
Cibola's  Seven  Cities,  dreaming,  thought 
Their  stores  of  silver  and  turquoise  to  find, 
Or,  desert  range  of  amethyst  behind, 
The  untrod  path  to  greater  India, 
To  Asia  and  Tartaria. 

In  slow  procession  over  gray  wastes  wound, 
When  first  dread  fire-arms '  sound 
Broke  the  long  silences  and  clank  of  mail 
Through  rocky  defile,  on  dim  Indian  trail 
Rang  the  shod  hoof,  and  poisoned  arrow  sped 
Where  time  cleft  gorge  and  sunken  river  led; 
To  see,  from  the  rain  gullied  mesa,  grown 
With  gnarled  juniper  and  low  pinon, 


[6 


The  terraced  houses  rising  from  the  plain, — 
A  fair  walled  city,  high,  with  towers,  where  fain 
In  rich  content  they  would  abide, — 
Wistful,  a  new  Granada,  glorified, 
Under  a  sky  blue  as  the  stones  it  bore 
Upon  the  carven  lintels  of  each  door. 


Or  saw,  thirst  fevered,  on  some  burning  noon, 

By  painted  waters  of  the  dry  lagoon, 

Fainting  and  worn,  with  straining  bloodshot  eyes 

From  out  of  the  hot  sand  in  splendor  rise 

The  city  of  their  search,  reflected  high 

Upon  the  reaches  of  the  turquoise  sky, 

To  watch  the  cloud  built  battlements,  unwon, 

Mocking  dissolve  and  vanish  in  the  sun. 


More  fortunate  perchance  it  might  have  been, 
Northward,  to  seek  the  Better  Land  unseen 
Beyond  dim  summits,  where  the  River  rose, 
Whose  conquered  fastnesses  might  still  disclose 
The  treasure  bearing  mountains  of  Zaiton, 
Tribute  to  yield  for  Castile  and  Leon; 
Or  enter  in  that  Happier  Land  by  way, 
Leading  to  famed  Cipango  and  Quinsay, 
The  Marques  of  the  Valley  sought  afar, 
With  armament,  under  the  western  star; 
Where  Spain's  tried  pilots  came  to  prove 
The  secret  of  the  Gulf,  the  head  thereof, 
Thinking,  where  strongest  drew  the  sucking  tide, 
With  separating  waters  to  divide 


A  hemisphere, — who  all  unknowing  fain 
Would  tear  a  continent  in  twain. 


A  charted  coast,  on  the  blank  sheet,  which  grew 
With  strokes  the  bold  map  makers  shaping  drew, 
Bearing  with  steady  keel,  up  from  the  south, 
From  the  Pearl  Bay  to  the  Red  River's  mouth; 
First  drafted  by  Francesco  d'Ulloa 
Proved  by  Alarcon,  Pedro  de  Tovar; 
Which,  doubled,  stretching  up  the  outer  shore 
Through  tangling  islands,  true,  Cabrillo  bore, — 
Unfinished  chart  Ferrelo  took  up  when  it  fell 
Out  of  his  dying  hand  at  San  Miguel, 
And  north,  Vizcaino  traced  with  curving  lines 
To  harbour's  stop  rounding  the  Point  of  Pines. 


A  treasure  island  of  the  Spanish  Mayne 

Where  close  her  anchored  caravels  have  lain, — 

Where  lurked  the  black  hull  of  the  buccaneer, 

Standing  off  shore,  or  covetous  drawn  near, 

Plunder  of  silver  heavy  in  its  hold, 

Tempted  by  spoil  of  amber  and  of  gold 

And  ropes  of  pearls,  dear  bought,  need  were  with  death, 

For  Britain's  virgin  Queen  Elizabeth. 


Where  yearly  passed  Spain's  outbound  galleon, 

Flying  the  flags  of  Castile  and  Leon, 

Swift  borne  upon  the  favoring  monsoon 

To  the  West  Isles,  where,  in  the  crescent  moon 


[8] 

Of  March,  the  gathering  junks  on  Indian  seas 
In  winged  squadrons  came,  wafted  by  breeze 
Fragrant  with  scent  of  spice  and  sandalwood, 
From  tropic  shores  where  treasure  cities  stood, 
Bearing  rich  merchandises,  precious  goods. 
Carvings  of  ivory,  caskets  of  rare  woods, — 
Brocades  of  gold  and  silver,  unspun  silk 
And  gaudy  parrots,  falcons  white  as  milk; 
Preserves  of  ginger,  spices,  cinnamon  seeds, — 
Sapphires  and  rubies,  jade  and  temple  beads, 
Red  sandalwood  and  arrobas  of  musk, — 
Until,  rising  from  out  the  scented  dusk, 
The  weighted  sun  gone  down,  soared  the  full  moon 
Faint  swimming  in  pomegranate  skies  of  June, 
To  light  the  treasure  ship  which  heavy  rode 
On  the  outgoing  tide,  rich  freight  bestowed 
In  its  frail  hold. 

The  harbour  left  behind, 
The  sailors  gave  their  white  sails  to  the  wind 
Gaily,  with  sound  of  music  on  the  deck 
And  beating  long,  baffled,  a  lonely  speck 
Upon  the  great  gulph  of  the  ocean, 
Months  after  saw  again  fog  shrouded,  wan, 
Cloud-like  against  the  saffron  eastern  skies, 
The  far  evasive  headlands  slowly  rise, 
Luring,  with  promise  of  some  haven  fair 
Which  on  its  peaceful  waters  safe  might  bear 
Their  barque.    Harbour  of  refuge,  port  of  call 
Where  once  again  the  anchor  chains  might  fall, 
Giving  good  promise  of  some  sheltered  cove 
With  running  waters  and  with  oaken  grove. 


Dreaming  perchance  of  unfound  Anian, 
The  visioned  passage  never  sailed  by  man, 
Or  countries  where  the  Northern  River  led, 
With  fabled  Gran  Quivira  near  its  head, 
Unresting,  worn,  they  found  not  harbour  lost. 
Nor  Northwest  Passage  found,  but  tempest  tossed, 
Helpless,  upon  the  stormy  waters  drift 
Southward,  where  mountains  towering  skyward  lift 
Their  snowy  summits  wrapt  in  clouds, 
Whose  evening  purple  ever  veiling  shrouds 
The  secret  of  the  Northern  Mystery. 


So  they  who,  toil  worn,  journeying  to  the  west, 

The  wide  encircling  land  to  doubtful  test 

For  sign  the  Narrow  Sea  lies  close  land  locked, 

Found  still  their  sought-for  entrance  mocked 

By  tide  which  rolled  in  billows  of  sand 

Between  them,  eager,  and  that  Better  Land, 

While  far  beyond  its  bitter  waters  rose 

The  same  cloud  veiled  Sierra  of  the  Snows, 

Blue  as  the  whispering  shell 

From  the  South  Sea,  whose  murmuring  voices  tell 

Their  rhythmic  secret  to  the  quickened  ear, — 

Sierra  Azul,  in  vision  seen  more  clear 

By  him  who  looked  across  those  silent  waves 

Breaking  on  strand  the  tideless  water  laves, 

First  of  the  banished  brotherhood, — 

Who  still  outside  its  borders  wistful  stood 

And  yearning  saw  beyond  the  azure  range 

The  fair  and  dreamed  land,  its  people  strange. 

At  evening  from  the  hill-top  saw  the  reach 


10 


Of  Cortes  sea  with  its  unbroken  beach, 
No  strait  of  Anian,  naught  to  divide 
Save  the  full  flooded  Colorado's  tide, 
Proof  of  the  land  locked  straits  discovery. 
Across  the  desert  waste  and  sapphire  sea 
Beheld  like  an  illumined  map  unfold, 
All  rich  embossed  by  the  sunset's  gold, 
The  many  lands  of  California, 
No  circled  island  but  peninsula. 


And  came  he,  that  high  dreamer  sandal  shod 

Spoil  of  lost  souls  to  garner  safe  for  God; 

On  desert  sea,  as  one  intent  to  save 

Walked  once  unsinking  on  Judea's  wave, — 

To  fertile  valleys  and  bright  rivers  came 

On  royal  quest  and  conquest  in  His  name, 

And  on  the  new  land's  threshold  paused  to  note 

The  flower  whose  sweetness  on  his  senses  smote, 

Plucked  from  the  virgin  land,  its  beauty  quick  to  feel, 

With  tender  hand,  the  roses  of  Castile. 


So  went  he  forth  beyond  the  mountain 's  bar 

To  farthest  coast  of  California 

On  the  South  Sea.     He  too  undaunted  sailed 

The  ethereal  coast*  along,  where  lookout  failed 

To  sight  the  evasive  shore,  lost  harbour  know, 

Sailed  in  the  good  ship  San  Antonio, 

The  phantom  ship  prayer-conjured  from  the  deep 

By  those,  in  faith,  despair's  long  vigils  keep, 

Whose  sail  rose  white  on  eve  of  San  Jose 


[II 


And  anchored  in  lost  port  of  Monte  Rey. 
The  risen  cross  he  blessed  whose  shadow  fell 
Near  the  great  oak,  hung  on  its  limbs  the  bell, 
The  Water  sprinkled,  beach  and  field  to  bless. 
With  holy  rites,  stately  observances, 
Before  raised  altar,  in  rich  alb  and  stole, 
Entreated  guerdon  of  the  heathen  soul, 
While  the  shippe's  company  all  kneeling  there 
Chanted  "Veni  Creatur  Spiritus" 
Triumphant  the  "Te  Deum  Laudamus". 


And  they  too,  eager,  through  the  young  land  came 

Drawn  by  the  potent  magic  of  that  name 

Whose  gold  illumined  letters  fortune  spelled, 

The  romance  of  its  old  time  promise  held, 

In  search  of  glittering  treasure  went 

Across  the  untravelled  continent. 

By  treeless  plains  to  pale  horizons  wide, 

Through  the  grim  gap  and  down  the  long  divide, 

By  gathering  waters  of  its  western  slope. 

Like  Argonauts  they  came,  full  of  brave  hope, 

Worn  voyagers,  who  from  hot  wastes  of  alkali 

Saw  far  Sierra  peaks  in  the  faint  sky, 

Floating  like  white  sailed  ships  to  bring  them  through 

To  the  fair  harbours  of  its  canons  blue, 

Where  billowy  foothills  break  in  foam  of  flowers 

On  the  bold  headlands  of  the  pine  clad  shores. 


Drank  bitter  waters  of  the  sunken  streams 

And  gaunt  and  worn  and  fevered,  dreamed  their  dreams. 


[12] 

As  they  who  came  across  the  enchanted  land, 

Under  the  turquoise  sky  and  from  the  burning  sand 

Beyond  the  mirage  waters  saw  again, 

In  dreams,  their  sky-hung  battlements  of  Spain, 

So  these,  plucking  their  tattered  garments,  came  at  noon 

To  mocking  waters  of  the  dry  lagoon. 

Slow  staggering  came,  thinking  their  thirst  to  slake 

Naked  to  lie  them  down  nor  dreaming  wake. 


Or  tardy  crossed  high  portals  of  the  pass, 

Under  the  avalanche's  ice-combed  mass, 

In  graven  menace  by  the  frosts  breath  hung, 

Between  the  narrow  gates  death  swung, 

To  find  white  graves  below  the  beckoning  peak; 

Or  pressing  on,  their  nearing  goal  to  seek, 

Groped  blindly  on  around  the  frozen  lakes, 

Down  to  the  tumbling  creeks  which  glittering  flakes 

Of  covetous  dreams  bright  flashing  bear, 

And  through  deep  gulch  and  widening  canon  tear. 


By  the  steep  game  trail  suddenly  descend 
Where  fallen  rests  the  painted  rainbow  end, 
Marking  in  bloom  under  the  sunlit  skies 
Where  treasure  pot  of  gold  deep  buried  lies. 
To  follow  where  in  unspoiled  channel  ran 
The  swift  North  Fork  of  the  American, 
Or  tarry  where  from  the  unmelted  snows 
Ice  cold  Mokelumne's  blue  current  flows, 
Or  pass,  gold  weighted,  by  the  empty  house 
And  unmanned  ferry  of  the  Stanislaus, 


Where  in  thick  willows  to  the  river's  brink 
Fearless  the  hidden  wild  deer  come  to  drink. 
With  lifted  heads,  scarce  startled,  listening  stand 
Leaving  their  footprints  in  the  golden  sand, 
And  bands  of  elk  and  antelope  are  seen 
Scouring  the  broad  plains  of  the  San  Joaquin. 


South  where  the  rain  swelled  rivers  run, 
And  poppies  grow  twice  gilded  by  the  sun, 
And  wild  oats  in  the  milk  for  the  fat  herds, 
Where  friendly  lips  shape  unconveying  words, — 
On,  where  slow  time  the  lengthening  shadow  tells 
Or  distant  sounding  of  the  mission  bells, 
Where  night  is  heralded  by  brightening  star 
And  tinkling  music  of  light  touched  guitar, 
The  leagues  of  rancho  ridden,  lies  before 
The  unasked  welcome  of  its  open  door, 
Where  song  floats  out  to  quicken  the  still  air 
And  red  flower  blows  in  braid  of  dusky  hair. 


Where  the  fiesta  tempts  to  loitering 

And  at  its  friendly  summons  gathering, 

From  near  and  far,  with  hospitable  count, 

Come  quaint  ox  cart  and  lagging  pillioned  mount, 

And  lithe  vaquero  ready  with  quick  throw 

Of  coiled  riata  at  the  saddle-bow, 

Bridle  and  bit  with  hand  wrought  silver  bright; 

The  cowled  priest  and  Indian  neophyte. 

Procession  the  green  country  side  makes  gay 

Where  runs  the  long  Camino's  lonely  way, 


Over  rough  rocks  the  infrequent  hoofs  scarce  mark, 

Shaded  with  live  oaks  through  the  level  park, 

Along  the  winding  trails  unhurried  miles, 

Where  through  the  sun  illumined  aisles 

Of  yellow  mustard  up  the  rounded  hill 

The  Caballero  rides  invisible, 

Startling  with  tinkling  of  his  silver  spur 

The  singing  birds  which  from  its  branches  whirr. 


Or  by  the  friar  host  the  guest  God  sped 

Through  corridor  and  thick  hedged  court  is  led 

At  morning  down  the  bare  trimmed  vineyard  rows, 

Or  olive  shaded  path  of  garden  close, 

Where  shine  the  waters  of  Franciscan  Bay 

Beyond  the  walls  of  Mission  San  Jose. 

And  travelling  on,  before  the  evening,  show, 

The  adobe  bastions  of  Presidio, 

Whose  idle  cannon  guard  the  far  off  town, 

Close  wrapped  in  its  gray  hooded  friar's  gown 

Of  fog,  which  soft  the  tented  heights  enfold, 

Until,  sudden  blown  back,  in  cloth  of  gold 

It  stands  new  clad,  the  shining  meshes  spun 

By  the  long  needles  of  the  bending  sun. 

As  one  in  homely  raiment  long  concealed 

Drops  her  dull  garment,  stands  revealed 

In  robe  of  state.     Swift  casts  her  vesture  sad 

And  waits,  splendid  in  regal  garments  clad, 

To  meet  the  ambassadors  of  Fate 

Who  come  with  rich  gifts  to  her  Golden  Gate. 


PART  II. 

Not  false  the  presage,  vain  the  age-long  quest 

For  Orient  treasure  of  the  dreamed  West. 

The  gold  which  gilded  dreams  once  more  set  free 

The  clogging  wheels  of  the  world's  industry. 

The  riches  of  the  yellowed  harvest  fields 

Food  for  the  hunger  of  the  nations  yields. 

And  more  than  ministers  to  bodies  ease, 

She  gives,  that  dreamland  of  the  centuries, 

Still  offering  beyond  the  bread  and  wine,  — 

Fruit  of  the  olive  and  the  vine, 

Drink  for  the  thirst  unquenched,  food  for  desire,  — 

The  flame  new  kindled  in  the  spent  sun's  fire; 

Eternal  greed  the  unseized  prize  to  win. 

Still  holding  out  her  lure  of  promise  in 

Fruition,  —  dreams  fulfilled  still  touched  with  light 

Of  dreams. 


Once  more  her  distant  shores  invite, 
In  poignant  loveliness  her  soft  hills  lie 
Dissolving  in  pale  depths  of  sunlit  sky. 
Illusive  still,  the  lights  and  shadows  play 
Over  their  rolling  crests  of  olive  gray. 
The  creeping  mists  still  vanishing  disclose 
The  evening  tints  of  amethyst  and  rose 
And  shining  strip  of  sea,  in  vision  seen, 
Where  history's  fadeless  pageantry  has  been. 


In  February — when  the  land  shall  wake 

Refreshed  from  its  long  sleep, — when  rain-clouds  break, 


[16] 

And,  quickening,  the  swelling  buds  shall  burst 

Their  sheaths.     When  stream  by  rock  and  boulder  pours 

And  the  pale  gleaming  boles  of  sycamores 

Wind  down  the  canons  to  the  lapping  waves 

Of  beaches  which  the  shining  pebble  paves, — 

With  Jong  arms,  throw  their  tender  veil  of  green 

Across  blue  deeps  the  weaving  branches  screen, — 

Through  alder  thickets  where  the  wild  doves  call, 

Down  from  the  hills  of  blossomed  chaparral, 

Blue  grey  like  the  low  hanging  smoke 

Of  votive  Indian  fires  rain  would  invoke 

From  the  ungathered  clouds, — unrisen  incense  still 

And  sweet  with  aromatic  scent  of  hill 

And  salt  of  sea. 

Across  the  Robles  Pass 

Where,  in  shifting  bed,  the  treacherous  Salinas, 
Over  the  sands  with  loosened  coil  outflung, 
Trails  shining  through  its  willows  catkin  hung. 


In  February — when  the  clinging  mists  hang  low 

And  through  the  fog  the  sand-dunes  gleaming  show, 

A  phantom  land,  dream-haunted  by  the  past. 

Land  of  desire!    A  resting  shadow  cast 

On  the  pale  sea,  where  the  mock  billows  surge, 

And,  from  the  lifting  fog  banks,  dark  emerge 

The  wind-blown  cypresses  of  Monterey 

And  shadowy  outlines  of  the  long  sought  bay, 

While  from  the  lonely  tower  of  Carmel 

Sounds  faint  the  echo  of  old  Spanish  bell. 


h7  I 

Beyond  the  Pajaro 

By  calling  streams,  through  laughing  valleys  go, 
Thick  grown  with  poppies  yellow  in  the  sun 
And  green  wild  oats  where  soft  the  shadows  run; 
By  roads  where  live  oaks  throw  their  shadows  dark 
And  rain  wet  fields  where  sings  the  meadow  lark, 
Through  pastures  where  uncounted  cattle  feed, 
North,  where  her  fairest  valleys  lead 
To  stretching  waters  beautiful  as  when 
The  hunters  came,  Ortega  and  his  men, 
And  saw  from  low  green  hills  the  wild  flowers  paint 
The  unfound  harbour  of  Assisi's  saint. 


So  once  again  does  California  sing 

Her  siren  song,  spell  of  enchantment  fling 

As  when  the  New  World  was.     When  unguessed  truth 

Was  miracle,  and,  in  her  fadeless  youth, 

Fresh  with  the  hope  of  the  expectant  centuries, 

Clothed  in  the  veiling  of  Time's  mysteries, 

Lovely  as  where  the  white  mist  sun-touched  curls 

She  rose  from  blue  gulf  with  her  dower  of  pearls; 


All  garlanded  with  winter  roses  waits, 

Within  the  portals  of  her  harbours'  gates, 

On  that  west  sea  Balboa  sighted  when 

He  careless  climbed  the  ridge  of  Darien, 

His  Indian  guides  outstripped,  and,  with  arrested  glance, 

Pausing,  looked  off  upon  its  dim  expanse 

Speechless  for  an  immortal  moment  there. 

That  unnamed  sea  Magellan  called  Pacific,  where 


No  misfortune  was  of  wind  or  tempest, 
Flowing  to  purple  Islands  of  the  West 
Where  treasure  of  the  golden  Indies  teems, — 
That  sea  whose  spoils  were  dreams. 


Entered  at  last  by  Isthmian  water-way 

Three  centuries  have  visioned,  to  Cathay. 

Wide  to  the  other  Mayne  Sea  open  thrown. 

Where  sailed  the  galleon, 

Dropping  the  new  horizon  line  below, 

The  stately  ships  in  fair  procession  go, 

White  through  the  mist,  over  the  azure  sea, 

Unchallenged  by  gun  of  enemy, 

Unbarred  by  ice,  by  fevered  land  unbarred, 

Their  painted  hulls  by  shot  and  shell  unscarred, 

Strung  out  like  albatross  in  an  unguarded  line 

Like  great  white  water  fowl  which  wing  the  brine, 

In  glad  migration  to  some  winter  home, 

Cruiser  and  battleship,  in  peace  they  come. 


To  that  fair  favored  land  sighted  at  last, 
Upon  whose  southern  shores  the  palm  trees  cast 
Their  swaying  shadows  on  the  purple  seas 
And  on  gray  hills  the  Spanish  bayonet 
White  flags  upon  a  staff  for  truce  are  set. 
Borne  swiftly  on,  heedless  of  calm  or  breeze, 
To  northern  coast,  where  giant  redwood  trees 
Their  long  watch  of  the  ages  keep, 
Between  the  snows  eternal  and  the  mighty  deep, 
Standing,  earth's  oldest  living  witnesses, 


Not  silent  as  the  Sphynx  or  motionless 

As  she,  doomed  in  the  drifted  sands  to  sink, 

Taste  the  green  earth  and  of  the  rain  drop  drink. 

Defying  death,  decay,  they  throw 

Their  swaying  branches  to  the  winds  which  blow. 

The  wild  rain  wind  out  of  the  southwest  whips 

Their  time-ringed  trunks  in  vain,  smites  their  live  lips, 

Dumb  to  the  secrets  of  the  years  which  roll 

Over  their  unbowed  heads  nor  take  death's  toll. 


Beyond  the  Half  Moon  Bay,  Fort  Point  around, 

With  dipping  flag  to  meet  the  ship  outbound, 

Unchallenged  through  the  gun-flanked  gateway  pass. 

Sudden  the  sun  illumines  Alcatraz 

And  Tamalpais  from  her  heights  looks  down 

On  winding  leafy  canons,  laurel  grown, 

And  crests  where  shrub  of  manzanita  grows 

Thick  blossoming  in  hues  of  dawn's  faint  rose. 

Within  that  noble  harbour,  stretching  wide 

To  gather  in  the  nations'  fleets,  they  ride. 


Haven  of  refuge,  port  of  call 
Where  safe  in  land  locked  waters  anchors  fall! 
Whose  quiet  shelter  storm-tossed  barque  invites. 
There  flash  the  signals  of  its  guiding  lights, 
There  gleams  the  Pharos  of  its  jewelled  tower 
Above  the  arch  of  man's  triumphal  hour. 
There  rise  the  bubble  domes  fresh  blown 
By  fancy,  all  unpricked  by  time.     Unknown 
Quivira,  where  the  dreamlight  fadeless  falls, — 


20] 


The  fabled  city  with  its  storied  walls, 

Receding  ever  from  the  search,  again 

Is  hung  with  borrowed  heraldry  of  Spain. 

There  swims  the  fleet  of  merchantmen  which  bears 

To  the  long  wharves  spoil  of  unvalued  wares 

Treasure  hard  won  on  deathless  battle  grounds. 

The  gun  of  evening  sounds. 

On  the  red  sails  the  sunset's  fire  burns 

The  still  flame-lighted  sea  to  crimson  turns 

Gay  banners  from  the  battlements  are  hung 

And  answering  pennants  to  the  breeze  are  flung. 


So  once  again  does  California  call, 

Glad  invitation  gives  to  festival, — 

The  world  invites  to  celebrate 

The  passage  of  the  newly  opened  strait. 

Bids  men  to  keep  triumphant  jubilee 

Which  marks  the  kinship  of  humanity; 

Her  Golden  Gate  wide  open  set 

For  the  world's  armament  in  glad  truce  met, 

Her  valley  vestibules  fresh  strewn 

With  petals  of  the  almond  bloom.     Fair  hewn 

Her  pleasure  house.     Within  its  sculptured  walls, 

Illumined  courts,  and  stately  halls, 

Her  feast  is  spread  purple  with  fruit  of  olive 

And  of  vine.     Her  welcoming  word  to  give, 

The  nations  of  the  girdled  earth  to  greet, 

She  stands  the  shining  waters  at  her  feet 

And  in  her  hands  the  bay.     The  scent  of  eastern  seas 

Is  wafted  from  her  wind  blown  draperies. 


[21] 

So  waits  she  there,  in  festal  state,  to  meet 
The  coming  of  the  nations  merged  fleet, — 
Summons  to  council  high  around  her  board. 

Waits  to  award 

Fresh  laurel  crowns  to  those  who  struggling  wrest 
The  victors  honours.     For  high  prize  contest, 
Where,  in  unending  strivings,  vie 
The  evolving  forces  of  humanity. 
With  iron  cross  of  peace,  to  decorate; 
The  deed  of  valor  to  commemorate, — 
Courage  that  scourge  and  pestilence  will  brave 
The  doomed  human  life  to  save. 
Waits  to  write  down  upon  her  parchment  scroll 
The  deathless  words, — to  call  the  roll 
Of  those  whose  names  shall  be  inscribed 
With  the  Immortals. 


Symbolic  feast,  a  lavish  banquet  spread, 

From  the  rich  stores  of  knowledge  garnered 

In  the  unhurried  years  of  frugal  peace 

Which  make  for  plenty,  to  high  toil  release; 

With  fruit  slow  mellowed  in  its  sunny  years, 

Untainted  by  the  wet  of  woman's  tears, 

Pomegranate  seeds  which  taste  of  pleasant  earth 

Its  tender  cares,  its  labor  and  its  mirth. 

Drink  quaffed  from  faith's  old  chalice  shaped  anew 

On  Time's  slow  wheel,  studded  with  sapphires  blue 

Of  higher  spheres  than  arch  philosophy, 

Sustenance  for  the  spirit,  tried,  to  give 

The  soul  which  fainting  yet  would  deathless  live. 

The  burning  draught  of  inspiration's  wine 


[22] 

Raised  to  the  thirsting  lips, — the  drink  divine 
More  frenzy  ing  than  any  crushed  from  grape 
With  thronging  forms  eternal  hope  gives  shape. 
Where  rises,  clear,  music's  unvisioned  flight, 
Which  yearning  goes  beyond  the  realms  of  sight, 
And  hovers  all  the  loveliness  of  art 
Light  winged  like  joy,  brief  poised  to  depart. 


Banquet  prepared  large  commerce  to  promote 
In  costly  stuffs  more  splendid  than  the  boat 
Of  Tyre  had  traffic  in.     Untariffed  wares 
Richer  than  the  white  dromedary  bears 
From  Orient,  in  the  long  caravan  slow  borne, 
Stuffs  thick  embroidered  on  old  thread  unworn, 
Unfading  with  the  stain  of  priceless  dyes, 
Silk  woven  into  pictured  tapestries 
By  patient  weaver  on  the  old  hand  loom. 
So  weaves  the  thinker  in  the  quiet  room, 
Slow  spinning  from  his  fecund  brain, 
As  spider  spins,  where  naught  but  dust  has  lain, 
All  substanceless  the  glistening  web  of  thought, 
Fabric  more  rare  than  Syrian  has  wrought. 


Where  research  shows  for  graven  form  uncouth 
Patterned  mosaic  of  the  eternal  truth, 
Its  fragments  sifted  from  the  ages  dust, 
And  treasured  with  the  scholar's  noble  lust, 
Each  broken  piece  with  careful  study  matched 
Imperfect  edge  with  patient  cunning  patched, 
Until  from  broken  bits  of  proven  fact 


[23) 

Slowly  at  last,  significant,  intact, 

Comes  out  the  semblance  of  the  pictured  whole, 

As  from  the  worthless  clay  looks  out  the  soul. 


Where  quick  invention  makes  with  costly  fee 

Tenders  of  service  to  humanity, 

Device  ingenious,  weary  need  to  foil, 

Prove  labor  less,  lighten  the  hours  of  toil. 

And  science  brings  its  princely  gift 

The  heavy  weight  of  man's  despair  to  lift, — 

The  germ  infection  fights,  conquers  disease, 

The  drug  which  deadens  pain,  makes  anguish  ease. 

The  slowing  breath, 
In  guise  of  sleep  gives  boon  of  quiet  death. 


The  silent  message  sent  to  summon  aid 

Over  wide  oceans  where  ships  unafraid 

Pass  to  and  fro.     Secrets,  unsolved  and  deep, 

Which  the  enslaved  elements  still  keep; 

Unproven  properties  of  electricity 

More  baffling  than  the  Northern  Mystery. 


Banquet  arranged  with  upper  seats  assigned 
Those  whose  largess  the  nations  closer  bind, 
To  take  account  of  high  distinction  won 
And  drink  the  toast  to  enterprise  begun, — 
To  those  adventurers  who  would  explore 
The  untrodden  path,  the  way  unknown  before, 
As  they  who,  in  strength 's  very  wantonness, 


[24] 

Knowing  no  fear,  no  boundaries  confess, 

Would  seek  the  conquest  of  the  uncharted  sky, 

The  deep  too  safe,  would  through  blue  ether  fly 

Beyond  the  sunset 's  gilded  bars, 

To  look  with  level  gaze  upon  the  unveiled  stars. 

Bold  mariners  who  sail  the  realms  of  space, 

To  the  far  heavens  soar,  new  perils  face, 

As  Spain's  old  pilots  sailed  the  unknown  brine 

Sinking  below  the  new  horizon  line. 

Wasteful  of  life,  eager  and  bold  as  they 

Who  in  their  quest  dropped  heedless  a  lost  day. 


So  stands  she  holding  in  her  outstretched  hands 

Fresh  laurel  crowns,  so  waiting  stands. 

By  sea  and  land  they  come,  come  at  her  call. 

Is  that  the  glad  salute  she  listens  for,  signal 

Of  anchors  in  the  quiet  waters  dropped, 

Of  throbbing  engines  stopped, 

Which  sudden  the  expectant  stillness  breaks, 

The  wide  and  multiplying  echo  wakes! 

Was  that  the  shock  of  the  stupendous  blast 

With  mighty  force  struck  open  at  the  last 

The  severing  rock,  and  with  the  waters  rent 

The  undivided  continent, 

While  at  the  sound  of  the  awaited  stroke 

The  answering  cannon  of  the  nations  spoke! 


No  dreamers  these, 

Lulled  by  the  lapping  of  the  new  linked  seas. 
No  peaceful  salvo  that  which  sounds  afar 


[251 

Beyond  the  eastern  gates  of  Panama. 
No  tropic  storm  the  signal  flash  has  made 
For  the  long  thunder  of  the  cannonade. 


As  one  from  slumber  rudely  waked  she  sights 

The  warships  prowling  dark  with  shrouded  lights 

Deep  burning  in  their  sockets.     Gaunt  and  gray, 

Like  hungry  wolves  who  famished  seek  their  prey, 

To  friendly  signal  dark,  mute 

To  the  enquiring  merchant  crafts  salute, 

As  over  the  dark  furrowed  seas  they  steal, 

All  menacing  and  swift,  with  silent  keel, 

The  red  tongued  pack  to  voice. 


With  straining  ears 
Scarce  credulous,  far  off,  she  hears 
In  Belgian  fields  the  German  gunner  ploughs, 
The  sweep  of  that  dread  scythe  which  mows 
Quick  sprouted  harvest.     Where  already  walks 
The  veiled  and  awful  reaper,  and  where  for  the  lean  stalks, 
Their  aftermath,  the  bending  women  go 
Patient  to  lift  the  burden  of  their  woe. 


Listens  to  hear,  with  sharp  suspended  breath, 
The  gay  French  bugles  summoning  to  death; 
Down  from  White  Russia,  tramp  of  countless  feet, 
And  gathering  of  England's  battle  fleet; 
In  newer  world,  the  mingled  blood  of  Spain 
And  those  for  whom  the  martyrs,  all  in  vain, 


26 


Spent  life  to  give  their  Gentile  souls  new  birth, 
Poured  dripping  out  upon  the  unfilled  earth; 
While  stealthy  wind  across  the  Eastern  Seas 
Stirs  the  still  tops  of  the  mulberry  trees. 


So  startled,  motionless,  she  listening  stands, 
The  laurel  dropping  from  her  heedless  hands 
The  immortal  scroll  forgot. 

Siren  no  more 

Stretching  white  arms  from  charmed  islands  shore, 
With  low  song,  to  the  seas  adventurer, — 
With  beckoning  hand  would  lavish  gift  confer. 
Not  California  with  her  lure  of  old, 
Beside  her  undug  rainbow  pot  of  gold, 
Who,  with  bright  promise  of  unfading  hope, 
Spanned  the  Sierras'  desert-guarded  slope; 
Through  its  white  glistening  portals,  rainbow  arched, 
To  death,  whose  wooers  willing  marched. 


California,  a  very  human  maid, 

In  many  tinted  gala  robes  arrayed, 

With  winter  roses  drooping  in  her  hair, 

Stands  by  her  shrunken  festal  board.     Scarce  shall  she  dare 

The  saddened  feast  begun,  banner  to  fling 

In  courtesy,  or  nations  anthem  sing 

For  thought  of  strife.     Or  feast  at  banquet  spread 

For  haunting  of  gaunt  faces  conjured 

And  huddled  forms  with  tattered  clothing  scant, 

For  voices  faint  with  hunger  and  with  want, — 

Those  whom  such  plenty  to  remembrance  bring 


All  shelterless  and  homeless  wandering, 
Sorrow  no  strain  of  joy  can  lull. 


So  stands  she  a  still  moment  sorrowful, 

Pondering  word  of  those  who  must  with  death  carouse, 

Who  stay  to  sup  within  a  charnel  house. 

Full  busy  they  who  minister  to  pain 

Where  crawl  the  wounded  from  the  heaps  of  slain, 

Where,  day  and  night,  the  battles'  thunders  roll 

And  Science  schemes  to  multiply  its  toll. 

Where  boat  rides  safe  the  charted  sea  above 

To  plant  a  mine  or  port  to  dragging  prove, 

And  deadly  submarine,  the  waves  below, 

Creeping  invisible,  would  sting  its  foe. 

Where  soundless  speech  is  sent  to  compass  death 

And  flames  burst  out  fanned  by  the  night  winds'  breath 

And  they,  bold  mariners,  who  in  their  flight 

Breast  the  soft  billows  of  incoming  night, 

Mounting  with  rudder  set  by  the  eternal  stars 

To  silent  space  beyond  the  sound  of  wars, 

Circle  like  evil  birds  to  drop  a  bomb. 

As  vulture  seeks  its  prey,  low  swooping  to  entomb 

Their  helpless  victims  in  safe  walls  of  home, 

Dark,  sinister  and  still,  they  flitting  come. 


So  listening,  she  waits,  as  one  who  hears 
The  steps  of  him  who  some  dread  message  bears, 
The  far  off  beating  of  the  muffled  drums, — 
To  greet  the  guest  who  all  unbidden  comes. 
Was  ever  festival  so  heralded, 


28 


Haunted  with  ghosts  of  the  unshriven  dead 
And  moans  of  those  who  toss  on  anguished  bed,- 
With  prophecy  of  misery  and  woe 
For  them  who  life's  full  bitterness  shall  know! 


So  hears  the  stricken  world,  aghast  and  pitiful, 
Sated  with  horror,  to  its  meaning  dull, 
The  bloody  tidings  to  its  confines  borne. 

Not  so  for  her  to  mourn ! 
Not  the  poor  body  mangled,  tortured,  torn. 

For  her  to  mourn 

That  which  shall  quench  the  kindled  spirit's  flame, 
Shall  close  the  eager  lips  parted  to  frame 
Its  speech.    Lips  stiffened,  sealed. 
Message  inspired,  forever  unrevealed. 
Hers  to  lament,  not  for  the  body  slain, 
For  the  long  brooding  brain 
Which  lifts  earth's  joys,  finds  lethe  for  its  pain. 
The  tense  drawn  spirit  to  fine  issues  strung 
Like  bent  bow  slackened,  dropped.    The  song  unsung, 
The  lovely  things  of  fancy  numbed  with  toil. 
The  ungarnered  thought,  the  ruthless  battles'  spoil. 
The  future  mortgaged  to  the  baser  use, — 
That  which  once  killed  no  labor  shall  induce. 
Not  him  alone  the  long  task  has  achieved; 
Who  dies  unlistened  to  and  unbelieved, 
Unproved,  with  undelivered  message  sent, 
Who  all  unheard  has  tuned  his  instrument 
Keyed  to  immortal  strains. 

Not  those  whose  tasks  are  done, 
But  him  just  stripped,  ready  the  race  to  run. 


Not  those  with  wreathed  immortelles  carried  to  the  tomb,- 
The  unborn  victor  of  the  barren  womb. 
Wives  desolate,  mothers  who  were  to  be, 
Maids  who  shall  keep  their  sad  virginity. 


When  wide  was  flung  the  awful  battle  line 

More  was  crushed  out  than  juices  of  the  vine! 

In  fair  fields  trodden  now  by  marching  feet 

More  was  struck  down  than  the  ungathered  wheat! 

Who  thick  along  the  cannon-wasted  fields 

In  sad  trench,  plant  the  seeds  no  fruitage  yields, 

Sprout  not  again  in  summer  through  the  earth, 

Once  gathered  in,  no  more  have  birth, 

See  perishing,  unheeded,  that  which  slain 

In  all  the  coming  years  lives  not  again ! 

Through  gaping  windows  of  abandoned  homes 

Its  dreamers  stretched  on  beds  where  no  dream  comes. 


For  her  who  pauses  on  the  final  strand 

The  utmost  limits  of  that  farthest  land, 

Ultimate  goal  where  migrant  man  must  rest, — 

Where  his  long  seeking  ends,  still  looking  to  the  west 

Where  the  sunk  planets  quench  their  light  to  rise 

Out  of  the  eastern  seas  in  dawn  lit  skies; 

For  her,  in  aspect  sinister,  to  scan 

The  unread  horoscope  of  man. 

Facing  that  East  of  vassalage  and  war, 

Whence  went  the  Wise  Men  following  the  star 

The  herders  saw,  in  the  night  watches  kept 

In  quiet  fields,  while  flocks  safe-folded  slept, 


[30] 

The  star  which  heralded  the  birth 

Of  the  great  Nazarene  of  peace  on  earth, 

Tidings  of  joy,  bringing  good  will  to  man, 

In  nineteen  centuries  two  oceans  span 

Until  they  come  into  the  east  again 

The  futile  tidings  martyr  borne  in  vain. 

That  sough t-for  land,  goal  of  an  age  long  quest, 

In  meekness  and  in  courtesy  possessed, 

On  the  Pacific  sea  which  washes  West 

And  East. 

Where  the  long  furrow  of  Magellan's  keel 

Was  drawn  like  impress  of  the  marriage  seal 

A  ringed  symbol  round  the  circled  globe 

To  fringing  Isles  of  Asia's  golden  robe. 


Vainly  as  East  to  West  comes  West  to  East 

To   celebrate  the  Pentecostal  Feast 

Of  vision  and  of  prophecy, — the  end 

Of  hate.     When  harmless  the  unscathing  flames  descend 

And  word  untaught  to  alien  ear  shall  reach 

And  comprehending  voice  a  stranger  speech. 

Divided  still  the  groping  nations  wait 

Separate,  apart,  as  for  some  visioned  strait 

Which,  all  unfound,  to  the  Blest  Isles  may  lead 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  passion  and  of  greed. 


Shaper  of  visions,  giver  of  fair  dreams, 
In  dumbness  of  all  prophecy  who  seems 
To  front  the  future  waiting  for  a  sign, 
As  one  who  seeks  in  carnage  some  divine 


Significance,  some  portent  would  evoke. 
As  though  foreboding  lest  the  stroke 
Which  cleft  the  barrier  of  the  parted  seas 
Had  rent  the  purple  of  old  mysteries; 
Who  hears  the  swinging  of  forbidden  gate 
On  shrieking  hinge,  the  outcome  must  await. 
As  one  who  wakes,  in  slumber  borne 
Through  gate  of  ivory  or  gate  of  horn 
To  the  new  day,  to  see  from  brine  to  brine, 
The  curved  and  burnished  line 
Of  white,  which  cleaves  the  hemisphere, 
Shine  like  an  unsheathed  scimitar. 

Seer, 

Sibyl,  prophetess,  who  seeks  to  read 
The  mystic  meaning  of  the  human  deed, 
The  Sphynx  like  riddle  of  the  human  fate 
Whose  age  old  evolution  ends  in  hate, 
Of  progress  which  forever  must  attain 
Its  highest  ends  at  bitter  cost  of  pain, 
Who  would  locate  and  reach  the  final  goal 
To  restless  seeking  of  the  human  soul, 
Confronts  a  subtler,  deeper  mystery, 
Ponders  more  difficult  anomaly, 
Than  he  first  sailed  flat  earth  around. 
Anomaly  perplexed,  riddle  profound, 
Whose  still  unspoken  answer  who  shall  guess, 
What  voyager,  what  prophetess! 


Who  shall  read  true,  who  demonstrate  in  strife 
Proof  of  the  something  dearer  yet  than  life, — 


13*1 

The  slaughter  pitiless  which  seems  to  prove 

The  eternal  mastery  of  love. 

In  brutal  struggle,  to  remonstrance  mute, 

Purpose  which  raises  man  above  the  brute, 

Caught  helpless  in  war's  pitiless  hard  mesh, 

Triumph  of  spirit  over  flesh. 

Soldiers  who  in  uncounted  legions  come 

For  the  defense  of  country  and  of  home. 

Millions  of  youth  who  willing  bring 

In  their  strong  hands  the  utmost  offering, 

Which  recognition  claims  too  deep  for  tears, 

The  free  gift  of  life's  unlived  years. 

As  each  one  of  a  million  heroes  dies 

Shines  out  the  splendor  of  such  sacrifice. 

As  burning  star  drops  bright  against  the  night 

To  quench  its  flame  in  dark,  so  flames  each  white 

And  burning  soul  to  death's  black  awful  rim. 

Heroic  courage  horror  cannot  dim ! 


Under  the  skies  a  solemn  figure  stands, 
MufHed  in  darkness,  on  the  twilight  sands, 
Looking  with  strained  far  gazing  eyes 
Over  the  fog  hung  waters,  where  yet  lies, 
Slow  foundering,  the  red  hulk  of  the  sun 
Like  burning  ship  engulfed,  its  last  cruise  done. 
Form  clothed  in  mystic  purple  of  the  seas, 
Shrouded  in  garment  of  night's  mysteries, 
Now  lost  in  shadows,  hidden  from  the  sight, 
Now  lit  by  splendors  of  the  kindled  light 
Of  artificial  stars,  whose  rays  swift  move 
Across  the  black,  while  on  the  heights  above, 


(331  •-•/"  !,. 

In  the  thronged  streets,  before  night's  revelry  begins, 

Flash  out  war's  awful  bulletins. 

Wrapt,  still,  as  one  in  vision  brought 

To  the  far  regions  of  remotest  thought 

She  seems,  the  questioner  of  human  fate, 

As  though  its  shrouding  veil  to  penetrate, 

To  catch  in  night  some  promise  of  the  dawn. 


Curtain  of  darkness  evermore  undrawn 

No  chord  of  earthly  twining  may  roll  back 

The  darkened  masses  of  that  dread  cloud  wrack. 

No  earthly  messenger  has  power  to  reveal 

The  missives  contents,  break  the  God  wrought  seal. 

Waits  buried  no  unfound  Rosetta  Stone 

Sure  key  to  scriptures,  pictographs  unknown, 

To  translate  in  the  dearth  of  witnesses 

The  awful  page  spread  open  to  man's  guess. 

No  deity  implored,  by  votary  sought, 

With  offering  of  smoking  entrails  brought, 

Speaks  in  the  hollow  shrine, 

Gives  utterance  to  oracle  divine. 

No  voice  of  prophet  bids  the  shades  disperse 

To  bare  the  eternal  secrets  of  the  universe. 


Expectancy  made  naught,  he  who  despairs 
Must  wait  fulfillment  which  all  time  declares, 
Which  earth's  slow  ordered  processes  attest, 
The  heavens  and  the  earth  make  manifest. 
In  man's  extremity,  must  summon  to  his  aid 
Thought  of  that  One  the  firmament  who  made, 


[34] 

Who  saw  the  myriad  forms  of  his  creation  press 

From  out  the  womb  of  nothingness. 

Must  turn  to  Him  who,  in  the  void  of  space, 

A  spirit  moved  upon  the  waters'  face. 

Who  first  the  soundless  message  sent 

To  part  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 

Who  separated  darkness  from  the  light, 

His  watch  lights  burning  set  through  day  and  night. 

In  the  beginning,  by  his  still  command. 

Dim  waters  severed  with  the  misty  land. 


HERE  ENDS   CALIFORNIA  AND  THE  OPENING  or 
THE  GATEWAY  BETWEEN  THE  ATLANTIC  AND  THE 
PACIFIC,  A  POEM  DEDICATED  TO  THE  CAUSE  OF 
PEACE.     PRINTED  BY  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
AND  SEEN  THROUGH  THEIR  TOMOYE  PRESS   BY 
HERMAN  A.  FUNK.E  DURING  THE  MONTH  OF 
OCTOBER,  NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SIX- 
TEEN, IN  THE  CITY  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 


